My body is a locked display
In a museum no one walks through.
Glass walls, warnings not to touch—
No map, no key, no clue.
My voice is a candle in a wind tunnel,
Flickering, fighting to stay lit.
Even when I bleed in metaphors,
They call it "just teenage ****."
I don’t wear scars like stories,
I hide them like shameful art—
Little tally marks of silence
Etched deep into my skin and heart.
I’m not broken—I’m unfinished.
A sketch left out in the rain.
Dripping lines and missing pieces,
A name forgotten, a frame of pain.
No mother here—just a woman
Who counts my failures with her eyes.
Sharp tongue, cold hands, fake smiles,
Every “what’s wrong with you?” a knife.
My dad?
He's a ghost with a phone.
Scrolls past birthdays like spam.
He only shows up in my nightmares,
And even there, he never gives a ****.
I eat dinner with silence.
Sleep under a roof but not a home.
The walls here echo insults,
And still I face it all alone.
I laugh in the right places,
Say “I’m just tired”like a chant.
But my wrists hum when the house goes quiet,
And I dream of “no more” when I can’t.
No one checks the corners
Where I fold myself at night.
They just praise me for being quiet,
For staying out of sight.
I don’t cry—I leak slowly,
Like a pipe left to rust and split.
This isn’t sadness, it’s erosion.
And I’m disappearing bit by bit.
